


How The Light Gets In

by MsVox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: ...Did I mention the feels?, And the smut?, Bucky Feels, Established Relationship, Healing, Love, M/M, Past Torture, Post CATWS, Post-Mission Alone Time, Post-Recovery Bucky Barnes, Psychological Recovery, Smut, Steve Feels, Things Are Said, oh so many feels, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsVox/pseuds/MsVox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve can’t get over the fact that it can be so damn hard for Bucky to let anyone be kind to him, still, even after all this time. Sometimes Bucky can’t help but feel like he's talking dangerously out of turn, can't always break past the clenching in his throat that kept him habitually silent, the silence that so often kept more pain at bay. </p><p>Some days, he still expects the blow. It breaks Steve’s heart to see him flinch.</p><p>(In which Bucky finds it in him to finally ask for what he wants.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How The Light Gets In

**Author's Note:**

> I can't tell if this is really feely porn or really porny feels. I just want these boys to be happy. Hugs for them and everyone. 
> 
> Warnings for Canadian spelling?

 

Bucky wants to ask for more, has wanted to since the instant the jet touched down, wanted to tear the uniform off Steve and get his mouth on every inch exposed. God, Bucky doesn't know how they waited.

Their gear is all over the floor of the hallway, dented body armour and frayed holsters with their weapons still in them discarded, layers unbuckled and peeled off and thrown aside one by one leaving a trail ending at the bedroom. Each piece shed takes more and more of the adrenaline with it until the hard, brittle edge of the battle high is softened and they can reach for each other with desire rather than desperation.

Steve's still so damn warm to the touch from the rush of the mission, that unbelievable strength coiled just under the surface where Bucky can feel it under his fingers. The serum burns like a furnace within him, like fire through him, and Bucky can't help how he wants to touch Steve everywhere, kiss every part of him, chase that heat as if it can burn the ice out of him, can cleanse him of the tinge of the Soldier that comes back whenever he gives himself over to the fight.

They both smell like gun powder discharge and smoke and metal and faded fear but Bucky can't get enough, and it seems neither can Steve, something needful in him woken by the rush of a victory that was never a sure thing, his hands on Bucky's body as much as Bucky's hands are on his. Every inch of him where Steve's bared skin meets his own is alight, every inch of friction sets his every nerve on fire. It’s still not enough, but even as Bucky pulls them both up against the bedroom wall, opens his legs and lets Steve pin him there with his whole self, hands and body and heart—he can’t ask.

The words are there, rising, but he can’t say them, he can’t. It doesn’t matter if Steve would probably say _yes_ in an instant, would say yes to pretty much anything that Bucky can dream up. What matters is that he’d be asking for something selfish and he just _can’t_ —

Even as Steve bodily lifts him up the wall so Bucky can brace himself and wrap his legs around him, even as Steve’s slicked hand works into him and Bucky’s head slams back at the heady drag of those fingers, he can’t ask. When Bucky is open and ready Steve throws the little tube over his shoulder—lucky shot, it lands on the bed—and then he’s pushing carefully inside, breathless and eager, filling him completely _Mary mother of God_ —

Steve kisses him, unhurried, indulgent, and for a time it keeps Bucky from thinking too hard, from tensing while he adjusts to the girth of him. It hurts, just a little, when Steve starts a shallow rocking, steady and tentative—but he’s never cared about that and _damn it_ , tentative isn’t what Bucky needs right now. It’s just not enough.

He needs _more_ , tonight. Bucky wants to drown, to be taken apart, but the words lodge in his throat, a spasm of fear he can’t quite quell. Under the throb and sensation he feels a dull, weary kind of hate for those that did this to him, beat the silence into him.

Hollow, it makes him feel so damn hollow and frozen, ringing suddenly with deeper echoes of the Soldier. Echoes that he thought he might have finally buried, echoes that keep rising up and choking him when he can’t defend himself. Skin to skin with Steve, mouth to open mouth, joined together like this in the nearest thing he’s ever known to bliss, Bucky’s desperate not to let anything taint this. He won’t let that bitter tide anywhere near what they have together. He _won’t_.

It makes him angry, what they took from him, how they twisted him, broke him, but that’s not what he feels fury for, real fury. More than anything it’s that the damage done to him won’t stay done to him alone, won’t stay within the lines of him. It splashes chaotic and crazed onto anyone who gets near him, still, a contagious emotional carnage that’s long outlived his choice to stop killing. That the people in this new life of his are so often _collateral_ because of was done to him, that it can still make others suffer—make _Steve_ suffer—it takes him beyond mere anger, makes him furious.

But fury, well…fury can be used, even here. Bucky can turn that righteous rage around, carefully, aim it at himself like he’s been learning, until it overpowers that fragment of programming, the reflexive, nerve-deadening terror that won’t let him speak for himself. He lets that old hate ignite, lets it burn through him until it’s a rising, pent-up pressure in his chest, until it forces out—

“I ain’t made of glass, damn it,” he gasps, “Even you can’t break me.” A tiny flare of triumph runs through him at the sound of his own voice, and he dares to lick a hot trail up Steve’s neck, mouths the skin behind his ear, kisses the corner of his jaw, pulls little noises out of him that make him even braver. “ _Harder_ ,” he growls, low and urgent and Steve actually moans, “I wanna feel how strong you are. I wanna see you lose it—”

“ _Jesus_ , Buck—”

“I want harder, I want everything you got,” he pleads, decides he doesn’t care about the edge in his voice.

Steve slows, pulls back to meet his eye. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He kisses Steve hungrily, shivering when Steve bites a little at his lower lip in reply, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, m’sure.”

There’s a moment when Steve searches his face, breathing hard, pupils blown and lips kiss-bruised, powerful emotions moving behind his expression like he knows exactly what it cost Bucky to say those words. Then he shifts his grip, gets one arm under Bucky’s leg. “Hold on to me,” he says roughly, “You better hold on.”

A grateful sound bubbles up out of Bucky’s chest, very nearly a satisfied laugh, and any leftover anger evaporates with it, that fury used up and useless. He wraps both arms around big shoulders, slides his metal hand carefully into sweat soaked hair. Bucky kisses him deeply, wanting and—isn’t that the darndest thing—actually joyful.

And then Steve lifts him, effortless, shifts him to a new angle, and he flexes—thrusts deeper, and again, _harder_ , and Bucky suddenly has no choice, all he can do is hold on. He clings to those shoulders, the surge of Steve against and inside him nearly knocking the breath out of him.

For a moment it’s almost too much, this spike of elation, his body singing, burning, from the heat between them, from the weight against him, the way Steve has him folded up against the wall, held up so easily—Jesus, Steve could break him in half, but he won’t, not even if he asked him to—Bucky hears himself make a noise that he never imagined could be his own voice when Steve thrusts hard again. He bites down on his own bicep, digs the fingers of both hands into Steve’s skin.

“Okay?” Steve grinds out, mouth opening against Bucky’s neck, breath gusting out across his racing pulse, and Bucky chokes on a real laugh, his throat moving under Steve’s lips.

“Such a gentleman—” he starts, but his voice and his mind are both starting to fray at the edges and he can't speak when Steve moves into him again; he can only gasp and angle his hips the better to meet him.

He shouldn’t have any leverage, nothing to push back with, enfolded the way he is, but Bucky is strong in his own right and he’s wanted this for a long time. Steve grunts with surprise when Bucky levers himself against his shoulders, bows his back just so, gets an extra inch of lift to fall that much more against Steve where they join. Bucky does it again, and Steve makes a naked noise in his throat that he can’t seem to help at all. It makes something liquid and hot pool deep in Bucky’s belly, makes him need to hear it more, makes him strive for it.

The new motion makes them wilder, rocking in tandem, makes them both less careful. Bucky tries hard to remember his metal hand, tries not to grip too painfully with fingers that can’t quite feel, but Steve’s habitual gentleness and care are giving way too and Bucky can’t help but be amazed to see it sloughed off simply because he asked him to. He can already feel bruises where Steve’s hands have gripped him so desperately and all it does is make him more enflamed. He only has just enough breath to make sure that this slick, harsh glide between them stays perfect, doesn't stop, not even for a moment.  

Then something changes in the way Steve’s throwing his hips forward, some small change of angle, and Bucky’s world is suddenly white hot and blazing and the extra jolt of pleasure almost undoes him. He realizes he must have cried out, long and ragged, must have let some great noise rip out of him because Steve is catching it in his own mouth, groaning “—yes, _Buck_ _y_ —” and then they’re kissing like they never have before, open and wet and desperate, because they’ve never kissed with Steve so deep inside him, they’ve never been closer and it’s more than Bucky ever thought he’d have.

Bucky doesn’t think he can come more unstrung than this, more unmade, but whatever place Steve brushed within him, he does it again and Bucky sees stars and— _Jesus!_ —inside him, again, that spot, _again_. Faintly, he knows that his thighs are burning and his arms are shaking with effort and that if he could just get his own hand on himself—if he could just let go of Steve for a moment—he would come, so hard, instantly—but he can’t, he _won’t_ , he doesn’t ever want to let go of Steve again, not ever again—and _God_ he’s hardly even breathing, but it doesn’t matter because Steve has found his rhythm, found the angle that unlocks Bucky’s voice, and of course he has the strength left to bow his head into Bucky’s neck and hit that place again, and again, and _again_ – pleasure seizes Bucky completely, pulls him open, and he’s spilling himself over both of them, hot and thick, gasping curses into Steve’s ear in languages he can’t quite remember knowing, digging his hands into the heaving muscles of Steve’s back, just hanging on.

He’s gotta be breaking the skin there, he must be hurting Steve, but he can’t unlock his arms or his legs from around him, can’t loosen his grip while the aftershocks rake through him, leaving him so sensitive, so raw, blank-minded and breathless and so blessedly undone. Steve’s lips are soft at his temple, his eyelid, his cheek, so gentle compared to the raggedness of his breathing, the firm pressure of his fingertips where he’s still gripping Bucky’s hips, clutching at him. That’s when Bucky feels the heat, stilled, between his thighs, feels the throb of Steve still hard and aching inside him, and he can’t help it—he moans, wantonly and a little weakly, part realization, part pleasure, part exhaustion. Steve just chuckles softly, sending little jolts up Bucky’s spine.

He wants to move, Bucky can tell, his hunger is palpable in the way his chest rises and falls, stuttering with eagerness, but he’s _Steve_ and he won’t, not until he asks, “You alright?”

“Am I alright.” Bucky actually snorts at him, tucks his crooked grin into the side of Steve’s neck. He concentrates, unclenches his hands from Steve’s back to run them shakily through Steve’s hair, giddy with relief. “I just found out that if I ever wanna climb you like a damn tree and have you fuck me wild as I want until I can’t see straight—” he darts his tongue out to taste wet skin, “—all I gotta do is _ask_.”

There’s an uneven breath and Steve flushes darkly, his neck, shoulders, face, and chest all burning pink. Bucky can actually feel the heat of it against his cheek, feel that so-steady heartbeat jump and accelerate, and it’s the sweetest damn thing. It’s unbelievable. It makes him want to give Steve anything, everything, and he doesn’t care how raw he is now or how sore he’ll be later, he cants his hips a little into Steve’s and says, “However you want me, Rogers. I’m still gonna make you lose it.”

“Bucky…”

Blushing hotly like that, his eyes alight with something fierce and wordless, Steve kisses him soundly, and there’s such desire in the way he licks his way into Bucky’s mouth, such heat, but there’s tenderness too, and care. There’s care in the way Steve gingerly shifts them—Bucky can’t help a hiss when his abused back unsticks from the wall—and Steve’s bearing both their weight towards the bed. Even while they keep fastened on each other’s mouths, he’s mindful of how slick their bodies are, how sweaty and battle-bruised, and his hold on Bucky is so careful. Steve’s strength is amazing, but there’s a tremble in his limbs now, and Bucky wonders distantly if it’s from exertion or from excitement.

Bucky is far too over-sensitized, skin tingling, almost stinging wherever they touch, but he still wishes there were a way for them to get down onto the bed with Steve still inside him. For one brief moment, Bucky’s chest clenches at the thought of losing this intimate joining— _no, not yet_ —of breaking the contact that he can never get enough of, that they both had to fucking die and claw their way back to find. There isn’t a way, though, not without risking a fall, a slip, something that could really cause Bucky some pain, enhanced or not, and they both realize it at the same moment, speaking over top of each other with voices a little too tight:

“Y’gotta get down, or I’m gonna—”

“Steve. Just hold on a sec—”

There’s a silence where they both quirk not-quite-smiles at each other, and Bucky knows that Steve must have felt the same stab of panic that he did. “It’s okay,” Bucky whispers, and he kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth, the tip of his nose. “I ain’t going anywhere. The frozen Alps are a long way off, Cap.”

“That’s not—Buck, that is not funny.” Steve scowls, gives him a little exasperated shake that makes Bucky nearly bite his damn tongue—does Steve realize how deep he still is? “ _Jerk_ ,” Steve says, vehement, and presses a fierce, possessive kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “Don’t you go saying that like it's a joke. Just…don’t.”

“I’m not joking, punk,” Bucky says, and his voice may be quiet, calm, but he gives Steve’s hair a hard tug until they’re nose to nose, and if he stares right into his eyes, Bucky hopes maybe Steve will see it clearly—that to him, no matter what shadows are left in his mind now, all the sacrifice, all the suffering of the long decades, it all happened long ago and far away, in something like another life.

Not forgotten, that terrifying fall and the icy, roiling depths of that damned river; the nightmare that came after, the darkness and the blood and the cold, over and over without end. Never, _ever_ forgotten—how could he? But the Soldier doesn't live right behind his eyes anymore. It doesn’t rule his days anymore. He’s done living with half his thoughts scattered always in the shifting past, his heart in slivers. He’s finally done with it, tired of hurting, finally healing, finally owning himself again. Shit, he can feel joy again. _Joy_. He wishes Steve could just _see_ … because Bucky is still full of fault lines, still scarred, the pieces of himself still joined imperfectly, and God knows the words won’t come without a fight.

“Get it? I—I’m _here_ , now. I’m with you,” Bucky says, his voice going rough—‘ _til the end of the line_ is unspoken, he swallows it down along with a swell of dangerous emotion—and gives Steve’s sweat stiffened hair another tug for good measure. “Now put me down,” he growls, “Get me on that bed and have your damn way with me.”

Steve looks like he wants to say a thousand different things, wants to give in to a thousand conflicting urges. He swallows, ducks his head for a moment, fighting them all down. His hands flex on Bucky’s hips while he searches for something to say…but Bucky knows that sometimes he can’t find the words either. For a man who can be so articulate, Steve can be downright tongue-tied when it comes to how he feels. He keeps it all so deep down, locks it all away.

They’re a fuckin’ pair, the both of them. The thought could make him laugh or cry if he let himself dwell on it. He thumbs little circles into Steve’s hair instead, tries to sooth the turmoil with just that small touch, and like his fingers can work miracles Bucky can tell that Steve is unknotting himself, sorting out what he wants to do next.

When Steve brings his head up again, he doesn’t say a thing, just presses another kiss to Bucky’s forehead, this one soft and reverent, before he lets one leg down, then the other. Bucky slips down his body with a quiet whimper that he wishes he could have kept to himself…and he slides off of Steve with an obscene, wet little noise that makes his own face heat up.

Bucky feels vulnerable, suddenly, more than naked. Too boneless without Steve holding him up, his thighs a little too shaky, and both feet might touch down on carpet but his knees betray him. He would go down in a heap if Steve doesn’t catch him around the waist to steady him…and then Steve is just holding him, gathered tightly in his arms. Bucky can’t stand to be held like this right now, as sweet as it is, suddenly can't bear it. He wants Steve hungry, not haunted, doesn't want to see remembered pain in his eyes. Instead he runs his metal hand down Steve’s back, down to cup his ass. His other hand, his flesh hand, he wraps around Steve’s slippery cock, satisfied when he wrings a moan of pleasure out of him.

Bucky tips his face up to Steve’s, drags him into a slow, heavy kiss that’s meant to erase everything from Steve’s mind except how fucking _good_ they taste to each other, a kiss full of promise and desire. Bucky ignores the way his muscles have so little left to give, stokes the fires of anticipation with as much wanton enthusiasm as he can, using his tongue and his teeth and his hands to banish the shadow of memory between them.

He can feel Steve finally put away the last shred of guilt, push it down to wherever it sleeps in him, and let need take over him again until he’s practically thrumming with it, until he’s actually _shaking_ —and damned if Bucky doesn’t feel lightheaded at the thought that Steve is coming apart in his hands, that he’s losing his mind because of Bucky’s touch.

But Steve’s hands close gently on his wrists. He twists his mouth carefully away from Bucky’s so he can breathe, brokenly, erratic. “Wait,” he says, so quietly that Bucky feels it more than hears it. “Just…”

He walks Bucky backward into the edge of the bed, and Bucky’s knees give out. He sits, tries to pull Steve back to him, to continue undoing him completely, but Steve reaches past him, grabs the lube. And as much as Bucky wants Steve to just hold him down, love him roughly, recklessly, what Steve needs now—what he asks of Bucky with his big, stupid, bruised heart right there in his eyes, looking down at him—is for Bucky to let Steve take care of him, to let him make sure he’s really okay.

Steve can’t get over the fact that it can be so damn hard for Bucky to let anyone be kind to him, still, even after all this time. Bucky can’t always bring himself to accept comfort, to admit if he’s injured, to ask for the things he wants, to speak up. Sometimes Bucky can’t help but feel like he's talking dangerously out of turn, can't always break past the clenching in his throat that kept him habitually silent, the silence that so often kept more pain—more needles, more incisions, more voltage, more beatings, more _pain_ —at bay.

Some days, he still expects the blow. It breaks Steve’s heart to see him flinch.

Looking up at him, into that hopeful, flushed face, he can’t do that to Steve, not now. How could he ever betray that raw, loving expression?

He’d said he would let Steve have him however he wanted, and he’d sooner endure torture again than deny whatever makes Steve happy, whatever wakes desire in him. So he takes the lube, gets some on his hand, and he leans back onto the bed, drawing his knees up, reaching past his own half hardness to the cleft of his ass. He slicks himself with it again, sees Steve’s eyes go almost black with want as he watches Bucky’s own fingers slip up inside. Bucky knows he could have done without, could have endured that burn gladly, but Steve’s eyes are on him, drinking in the sight of him, and that gaze is as soothing and arousing as what he’s doing with his hand, a balm for his soul and body alike.

He reaches for Steve too, another palmful of lube offered for his cock, and Steve can only endure a few cool, wet strokes before he pushes that hand away and bends over Bucky with intent. He pulls Bucky up to the middle of the bed and carefully lays himself down on top of him, settling between Bucky’s thighs. They’re flush cheek to cheek, chest to fluttering chest, Steve heavy between his legs, and— _dear God_ —Bucky can't believe how slowly Steve can stand to slide back inside him.

Gentle, so fucking gentle, and it’s not anything like that earlier roughness, but it still takes Bucky’s breath away. Steve’s mouth meets his, and the impatient tremor in Steve’s thighs belies the slow, tender way he works his way in to meet Bucky’s tongue, and Bucky knows he’s holding back, knows he’s waiting. He kisses back eagerly, curls his metal arm around Steve’s back, runs that cool hand up and down, tracing the path of sweat down muscle. He splays those dangerous fingers over the very base of Steve’s spine, grips the topmost slope of his ass, pulls him in; he lifts his legs up to wrap around his hips again, dragging a heel up the back of a knee, encouraging the motion that Steve must be dying to make. In every way he can, he gives silent, unequivocal permission—

“No,” Steve says, shaky and small in Bucky’s ear, “I gotta hear you say it. Not unless you ask.”

The desperate “ _Please_ — _I want it_ —” is off Bucky’s tongue before he can even think, before the fear can come back and take it, and he’s so damn grateful for that when Steve gives in to his need at last—

The stifled noises that Steve makes against his lips when he finally thrusts again, so full of appetite, of the raw tones of desire, it’s something Bucky so rarely hears. Steve is a man of banked fires, of self-denial, of endless striving, a man reined in and ruthlessly tempered. To hear his voice in that state, open and naked, it makes him burn, makes his heart ache. It’s the sound of Steve, at long last, starting to break apart; shaken down to his baser parts, reduced to his molten, starving core. That noise, it sets Bucky alight with love for Steve—and he loves him so much _,_ _so fucking much_ —he would stay here forever if he could, beneath him, mouth open to him, transfixed by the blessed, earth-tilting heat of Steve moving into him…

Except Bucky still wants, more than anything, to see Steve come. He wants to see him rise to that edge and fall beyond it; he wants to watch his face when he does.

He’s suddenly aware of how his flesh hand is still free, still slick. Suddenly Bucky needs to know what it would do to Steve if—if he—He needs to _see_. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s lower back, slides those wet fingers down past his metal hand, down and between until he’s touching _there_ —

Steve quivers, losing his rhythm, gasps against Bucky’s mouth. Bucky circles a finger, slips the tip inside, and Steve lets loose a broken moan. For a moment Steve forgets himself, can’t help but spread his own thighs a little, seeking more of that touch, his eyes squeezed shut. Bucky swears he can feel Steve _throb_ inside him—he never imagined Steve could be harder than he already is, _Christ_ —and he closes his eyes to feel it better, to memorize exactly how this feels. They just breath heavily against each other, lost in the sensation of it, clinging—until Bucky comes back to himself, takes a firmer grip of the back of Steve’s thigh with his metal hand, encouraging him in— _yes_ —back into a rhythm.

Bucky keeps his other slicked hand right where it is as Steve moves, and when he slips a second finger inside, stretching him, Steve nearly loses it, caught between thrusting forward and pushing back, every part of him shivering with pleasure. Steve’s hands fist into the sheets at Bucky’s shoulders, sweat falling on Bucky’s chest, running down the ridges of his stomach to mingle with the mess there. So slick, the skin between them, and Steve finally starts to really lose his calm, becomes almost desperate. Bucky wishes he could reach deeper but can’t, curls his fingers instead and—

“— _Ah!_ — _like that—_ ”

Bucky watches Steve’s face, hungry for every detail, wants to see every moment of what he’s doing to him. He watches while he clutches the curve of Steve’s ass, curls his fingers again into that slick, tight heat and— _God, what a beautiful fucking sight_ —Steve is crying out, his voice a broken mess; he shudders, thrusts deeply, incoherently, his whole body twisting in bliss, wracked with it; he comes, hard, and Bucky feels it deep inside him, a burst of warmth as Steve’s hips push him up the bed.

And shaking, gasping, sweaty and sated, Steve slumps on top of him, his face falling into Bucky’s shoulder. He can feel Steve’s heart hammering double time against his chest, his pulse right there under the skin of his neck, right under where Bucky can let his lips linger.

"Buck, I can't even—I—" Steve gives up, moans breathlessly, helplessly, into Bucky's ear. "Lord, the things you _do_ to me..."

Something warm and smug flares in him, and Bucky smiles into Steve's skin, more than pleased with himself, lazy with satisfaction. It takes Steve a long time to come down, and Bucky holds him from beneath while the trembling subsides, while his breathing slows, pressing a kiss here and there into his neck and shoulder, his hands roaming his body. Sweaty skin begins to cool, sticking them together, and Steve is still boneless against him, utterly spent, close to drifting off.  

He wants to keep Steve on top of him like this, stay anchored safe to the bed until dawn. He would fall asleep with Steve still inside him if he could, keep that closeness right into dreams. Steve is heavy, though, so damn heavy it’s hard to breathe beneath his full weight, and Bucky can’t deny that he’s too damn raw to do anything but push at Steve until he gets the picture and lifts himself up with a groan.

Steve has the presence of mind to pull out slowly, conscientious as always, but Bucky still can’t keep from hissing in discomfort. He aches, he aches all over and he’ll be sore for days in more than one place, but he couldn’t care less. Every bruise feels like part of a victory, each one a reminder he wants to treasure while it lasts. And the soft, subtle burn between his legs that he only ever gets from Steve taking him, filling him…well, that’s the closest thing Bucky’s ever known to love marking a body as its own. It may make him wince whenever he shifts, but it also makes him feel claimed, connected. It makes him feel human again, so damn grateful that he can feel at all.

He gingery sits up, stiff and slow, catches Steve about to apologize—like he didn’t give Bucky exactly what he asked for, just as hard as Bucky asked for it—and throws him a quelling look. He thinks Steve is being ridiculous and overprotective right up until Steve turns to leave the bed with a resigned sigh and Bucky gets a good look at what his left hand did to Steve's back.

 _Jesus_.

Having to swallow down his own apology, his own guilt and alarm, it turns him inward, lights up flickers of memory of other things done by that hand. He’s quiet when Steve comes back from the bathroom with a damp cloth, quiet while he’s cleaned all over by doting, devoted hands. He’s quiet even when Steve flips off the light and pulls the covers over both of them and settles them together, a kiss pressed against his hair, wondering what the hell he’s ever done to deserve this.

They both badly need to shower, but later, _later_ , and Bucky will never admit to how much he needs it sometimes, to curl against Steve's skin, to smell the sweat and sex on him, to just press himself into another animal body. The simple fact of it, the reality of the human contact, it grounds him in the here and now in a way that nothing else can, here where he's free to want and touch and taste and take. He unashamedly burrows deeper into Steve's pocket of heat and he's rewarded with an arm curled around him, an anchor in the dark.

When Steve’s fingers start to stroke lightly, lovingly, all along the scars at the edge of his metal arm like those brutalized whorls and slashes are the most precious thing, suddenly Bucky’s overwhelmed. Suddenly his throat is tight and _fuck_ —he’s horrified when his damn eyes start burning. He turns in disbelief to stare at Steve in the gloom, but Steve is already half asleep. He’s doing it unconsciously, unthinking and inattentive, his eyes drifting closed and a dopey little smile on his face. 

“You— _Steve_.”

 “Mm?”

Bucky rolls to face him fully, pulls at him, drags him closer, _closer_. He gets his hands on either side of Steve’s face and kisses him like he can breathe him in, with everything he can, with every ounce of gratitude and rapture, of fervor and affection. He kisses him fiercely, deeply, as fiercely and deeply as Steve is so willing to kiss him back, and they don’t stop for a long time, not until the world feels smaller, like it’s just got the two of them in it.

Bucky tastes him one last time before pulling away just to look at him, just to see the face of the man who’s saved him, keeps saving him. Steve is stunned, stares at him wonderingly. Bucky just strokes at his face, searching his eyes, and something formless in him coalesces. The words come so easy this time, simple and bare and true:

“…Thank you,” he says, so quietly.

Steve just looks at him in confusion.

“For what, Buck?”

“…for loving me anyways.”

Steve blinks, then the words sink in and he gets that look on his face, the one that might as well twist a knife in Bucky’s chest. Like Bucky has just made Steve’s day, his _week_ , lit him up from within…and kicked him below the belt, punched him in the gut, at the same damn time. It's fucking heart-wrenching. Then something in his eyes clears, and Steve’s expression settles into something else, something determined and hopeful and sure. He reaches for Bucky, holds his face just as Bucky holds his.

“Thank you for letting me,” he says, and maybe it’s just the fatigue and maybe it’s something else, but his voice isn’t exactly steady. He runs his thumb over Bucky’s lips, follows it with a kiss of his own, sweet and brief. 

Steve strokes that hand down to lay it on Bucky's throat, softly, hardly touching, and it doesn't even cross Bucky's mind to recoil from that feather-light caress, to curl away and protect his vitals. He's _safe_ here, with Steve, never safer. He can do anything, _say_ anything—and with a jolt, suddenly Bucky gets it. Steve knows _exactly_ how Bucky has been struggling, how he's had to fight against the muzzle left jagged and armed in his mind. Insightful son of a bitch probably knew from the beginning what the programming meant, what it would take for Bucky to defy it.

"You gotta know," Steve says, "how far you've come. I'm really proud of you."

 And that...makes the world bend. 

_He's eight, giddy and nervous, showing off his new miniature fire engine. He desperately wants Stevie to notice how bright the colours are—the brightest he ever saw, brighter than any painted wooden model—how real it feels ‘cause of the heavy cast iron. He’s anxious for Stevie to nod his approval so they can play firemen and…_

_He's twenty five, and he's staring at the draft slip, horror creeping into his heart. Steve scares the ever lovin’ outta him when he comes in early and Bucky’s so desperate for Steve not to find out that he honest to God shoves the thing into his back pocket. And he lies, lies through his teeth, tells Steve he enlisted, feels his gut twist when Steve's smile grows into something bright and admiring and..._

_He's nineteen, and he's relishing the moment when he gets to lay ten bucks on their only table and tell Steve he got on with Isola's boys down_ _at_ _the docks. He can’t wait to tell him they don't have to eat thinned out soup anymore, day in, day out. He found good work, he can take care of the both of ‘em and…_

_He's twelve, and he's grinning through the blood and split lip. "I sure chased them off, huh?" He pulls Steve up by his torn shirtsleeve, finds his lost button in the gravel and puts it back in his pocket for him. Steve is thunderous, though, dabs angrily at his own bleeding mouth, hands shaking even as they’re clenched into fists. “Why y’gotta do that, Buck? You shouldn’t get in fights for me.” Bucky looks away, pleased and confused with himself both. “It ain’t right,” he says, carefully, “them picking on ya just ‘cause you're small and_ _y'get_ _sick_ _easy_ _.” That’s not the only reason he went on hitting Jimmy McCullom, but it’s the one that’ll make Steve lose that storm cloud expression and let Bucky clean him up and…_

_He's twenty eight, and he's desperate to hide how ugly he's become. He hates the loss he feels when he sees Steve big and healthy and strong, hates the selfish pain it causes him to see Steve trailing after Agent Carter, head over heels for her and happy. He stares into the future and sees nothing but mud and machine grease and misery, blood on his uniform and Zola’s table in his dreams. Steve can’t know. He can’t. It would_ _kill Bucky_ _if Steve knew how he’d broken, how he’d begged and cried and screamed for his own life and…_

_He's..._

He's lost for a while in the storm, fragments of his old life still swirling, disjointed, in his mind's eye, all of them coloured by the churning emotions that Steve’s words have woken in him. A different kind of echo, Steve’s voice in the void, rippling outward, gently overturning each broken piece of Bucky's life, making everything bittersweet and raw and touched by something like light.

 _I’m really proud of you_.

It hurts to hear it. It hurts because it means everything to him. Every version of him, for as long as he can remember, has sought this, _craved_ this. All he's ever wanted was to live up to how much Steve believed in him… but he's not quite ready to really hear it because he knows he doesn't deserve it. He isn't a good man. Bucky wants it so badly, to take in that praise—that light—and trust in it, but he shies away from it, can't look that feeling in the eye.

He'll be a good man when he's atoned, and for all that he's done, all the blood on his hands, even this second, unasked for lifetime will never be enough to do that. But he has to try. For what Steve just gave him, for the man Steve thinks he is; to become that man, maybe, someday, he has to try.

"Hey," Bucky says softly, the words feeling clumsy and too obvious, "What you did today, we...we woulda been in deep shit without you. You got us through that. You made the right calls. You're a good leader, Cap. I'm proud of you too, y'crazy son of a bitch." 

When Steve bows his head and breathes deep and closes his eyes like Bucky has just granted him God's own benediction, it…it _melts_ him—hits him like a wave—because it never occurred to him that Steve would need to hear it so badly, that he might have let silence eat into him just as deeply as Bucky has from a different direction.

Jesus, he's a fucking fool for forgetting: Steve Rogers is a _man_ , not a monument, the pillar at the centre of their team and the centre of Bucky's life but not made of stone. He's human and whole-hearted and soft in places that most wouldn't expect, in ways that don't make him weak but do make him vulnerable and Bucky vows that the first thing he's going to atone for in the morning is all the things he hasn’t been able say.

"I love you," he says, to make it plain, to make good on that vow, right here and now. He tips up Steve's chin, meets the bluer-than-blue gaze that feels like it's the first blue he ever saw. He feels that wretched conditioning deep in his mind shrivel and crumble to ash in the face of everything this man means to him, knows that it will never have the same hold on him. Nothing will _ever_ keep him silent again if it means that he gets to see some of the doubt in Steve’s eyes eased.

"I love you and I'm proud of you and you amaze the shit outta me," he says, because he can. He _can,_ and something deep and ugly has been purged from him. He feels light and emptied, weightless, and he smiles at Steve, really smiles, in a way he hasn't felt himself do since before the war.

Steve makes a noise in his chest, some feeling caught there and broken open. He gathers Bucky in his arms, envelops him, draws him close and pulls him over until Bucky is on top of him, held as close as humanly possible to Steve's heart.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," he says, and his voice might catch but Bucky can hear his tentative smile, his growing joy, and that's all that matters.

In the morning there will be debriefings, meetings, equipment and medical checks, reports and examinations and psychologists and—it’s mere hours away, all that, but Bucky doesn’t care. As long as he can be in Steve’s arms right now, he just doesn’t care. He drifts off like that, skin to skin and home, Steve holding him together until the light comes in.

**Author's Note:**

> Ring the bells that still can ring  
> Forget your perfect offering  
> There is a crack in everything  
> That’s how the light gets in
> 
> Title from Leonard Cohen's Anthem.
> 
> ****
> 
> I guess this all happens in a bit of vacuum, since I don't mention any of the Avengers, but I do imagine them all present on the edges--Who taught Bucky to use his anger except Bruce, right? Who gave him faith he could break his silence and his conditioning but Natasha and Clint? And what team but the Avengers would Steve struggle so much to lead with a clear head? Who would make him second guess his decisions like Tony? Who would shake his certainty in the world like Thor? Who on this good green earth would be as patient with Steve and Bucky's halting attempts at building a life together than Sam? Yeah, I don't mention Sam, but he's *definitely* around...
> 
> This is the first fic I've written in many, many years. This fandom and this pairing have taken over my brain in the best possible way. It's good to be back! *waves at all the Stucky people* :)


End file.
